labels
by adecentname
Summary: where Thomas finds himself wondering what they are at different stages. newt/thomas


unbeta-ed.

disclaimer: i don't own any characters.

* * *

Being the Greenie in a place like the Glade wasn't exactly a blessing, because being trapped in a place like this that cultivated fear only sparked skepticism and made even the softest of hearts jaded. But he considered himself a lucky man, because despite all the taunting and less than friendly looks he got, he knew that the other Gladers still cared enough for him to save his ass. Case in point: Gally. But he wasn't about to admit that yet, he was still kind of peeved about the way the older guy went about doing things.

In fact, besides Chuck, the only other friendly and approachable person he had met so far was the second-in-command. There was something in the way that he smiled that made the maelstrom of emotions calm even the slightest bit, and something about the way that he stared at you that made you feel vulnerable. It wasn't the kind of vulnerable that bullies goaded their victims into, but the kind where you feel like you could just talk and talk about everything and nothing, and he'd still be there listening.

He supposed that he was getting a little emotional at the moment, with the jar of klunk that was Gally's secret recipe in his hands and the rough bark of the tree against his back, and a piercing stare directed at his temple. He looked away at the liquid, swirling it slowly in place. It was quiet between them, tension palpable, the both of them mindlessly watching the Beetle Blades scurry across the grass in front of them.

"You look like you've got a lot going on up there," Newt chuckled, fingers pulling the jar away from his hands. Newt took a contemplative look at the translucent liquid, probably some dirt particles floating on the surface, and gave a shrug of his shoulders. "wanna talk about it?"

It took him a few seconds to realise that the jar was now with Newt, and then some more that he was spoken to. He blinked once, pushing himself higher against the horizontal tree.

"There's a lot of it." He began, apprehensively glancing at Newt. The guy was unfazed, still sipping the liquid. "I don't know where to begin."

The the fire behind them danced like a prima ballerina on the opening night, drawing out their shadows into the darkness a few feet away.

Newt held the jar towards him with an arched eyebrow, but he shook his head instead.

"What's buggin' you the most?"

"I don't know, everything? I guess not knowing my own name is still at the top of the list, and then maybe what I am doing here a close second."

"Ah," Newt sighed. He took another long sip, eyes trained in front of him. "you probably already know this, but you'll remember your name soon. And the rest of it, stuff like what did I do to deserve coming to this bloody place.. It's outta your control, outta mine as well. Only the Creators know that. You," Newt threw him a purposeful look. "just need to accept that this is your new life, and get on with it."

Distantly, he can hear the enthusiastic cheering of Gally's name and some manic laughter. He wondered if this was what it was going to be like; celebrating for newcomers, or perhaps celebrating even being alive. He imagined spending the rest of his life depending on a box of supplies each month, spending the rest of his nights listening to the cries of killers roaming the maze at night, being trapped here with no knowledge of who he was before this. A shudder ran through him at the thought.

Before he could stop it, words slipped past his lips. "What are we?" He whispered, words laced with fear. Newt gave him a sympathetic look, hands patting his back gently.

"Well, here in the Glade, we call ourselves Gladers." Newt laughed airily, cocking his head and giving him an easy smile. He nodded dumbly, trying to return the smile but coming out more like a grimace.

"Gladers." he repeated stoically, not liking how foreign it felt to him.

* * *

In the chaos he was thrown in since he woke up in the box, Thomas has hardly had a single moment of peace and solitude to himself. There was always one thing after another, a new threat or an ultimatum hanging over their heads. Do it or die. It was funny because when the Gladers where back in the Glade, they had been trying day after day to escape, but now it was written all over their faces that they wished they were back there. Back at the Glade, there was food, water and shelter. There was a semblance of normalcy. Now, there was only despair.

Thomas lay on his side with both his hands under his head, body curled into itself for warmth. The wind blew bitingly at them, carrying sand and dust that settled onto the planes of his skin, eventually sticking with the sweat accumulated. He didn't think he had ever felt so exhausted even as a Runner back in the Glade, because there was something in him that knew things would be okay, that they would find an escape route somehow. He had Teresa, Chuck and Alby back then as well.

He tried to call for Teresa again, feeling the gaping hole eat away at his chest when there was no response. He remembered how he had felt so violated and intruded when they first communicated wordlessly, but now he was feeling in the dark for any sign of her left. The confusion at her warning and the feel of her lips against his only added fuel to the fire that was his emotions, all fighting to gain dominance. He sighed deeply and leaned on one elbow, rubbing his hand down his face languidly. It was only the beginning of a long and arduous journey, but mentally he was already worked to the bone.

Thomas sat up straighter and glanced around at the pile of sleeping bodies scattered around him, each of them looking vulnerable in their sleep. He took the moment to observe them. Thomas was mildly fascinated with how different they were during the day, where they had to put up a facade and be stronger than who they really were. It was only in their dreams that they could revert back to fantasy and live out their stolen childhood.

Feeling slightly guilty for intruding on their moment of weakness, he started to look elsewhere when he spotted Newt sitting with his back towards them a few metres away. The boy sat very still on the mountain of sand, head tilted up to the sky. If it were any other boy, Thomas would have left him alone. But it was Newt, and things were always different with Newt. There was a kind of connection between them that he couldn't put a finger on, but it felt like he was inherently pulled towards the other boy. He briefly wondered if Newt had felt it too, but the thought disappeared as soon as it had come.

He silently crossed the distance and sat next to the blonde boy, quietly observing the twinkling white lights in the sea of black. The wind continued chiding them for wasting precious hours of rest, particles of sand hitting their exposed skin punishingly.

"I never realised that there were no stars back in the Glade. I never bloody realised that even after two years." Newt muttered. Thomas's mouth opened, then closed when he had nothing to say to that. He drew his legs to his chest and rested his arms across his knees. He looked at Newt quietly, taking in the way the other boy's square jaws were locked together, and the guarded expression he wore. It looked almost as though Newt had aged ten years overnight, such a wary face unsuitable for a boy his age- whatever it was. Blonde locks flew wild in the wind, but it looked more like they were fluttering around his face.

"They took away our memories." Thomas reminded, wincing slightly after the words rolled off his tongue. As if Newt needed to be reminded at all, the guy probably beat himself up about it for 2 more long years. Newt snorted and rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, they took away our memories and took away our names. Our real names." He spat, the bitterness in his voice alarming Thomas. He had never seen Newt so upset since Alby's death, and unlike him Thomas didn't know what to say to comfort others. In fact, he didn't even know if he should still be sitting here talking to Newt when he had been part of those people himself. The Creators. He knew Newt didn't blame him, but inwardly he couldn't help but worry that there was a seed of doubt and mistrust in Newt towards him. He couldn't imagine what he'd do if that were the case. Newt had always been on his side, even when there was evidence to convince him otherwise.

Newt looked at the sullen expression Thomas had from the corner of his eye.

"I don't blame you, Tommy, you know that."

"I know. But it doesn't change the fact that I was once on the other side."

Newt looked down at the sand that had gathered in the creases of his pants. He swept a hand across it and watched the sand fly away like a piece of flimsy plastic.

"The you that did this doesn't even exist anymore." Newt said simply. There was no room for argument, and honestly Thomas didn't think that he had the heart to pursue the matter anyway. He held Newt's fierce stare for awhile before he let it drop, looking back at the stars again. He wished that Chuck could see this.

"We aren't who we were, so who are we, really?"

The stars twinkled at them from thousands of miles away, like an outsider eavesdropping on them. When Newt remained silent, Thomas wanted to start counting the stars just to fill the heavy awkwardness between them. But each time he looked at one of the white lights, they seemed to disappear for a split second, and then reappear again. After a few moments, he gave up, and Newt broke the silence.

"Isn't it obvious?" The tired smile morphed into something more cynical and hateful. "We're lab rats, experiments. They don't care if we bloody die out here if it means that they can get whatever the shuck they want."

Regret seeped into every fibre of his being, each word a stab to his chest. He couldn't refute that, because it was the truth. Thomas let his eyelids flutter shut as another breeze cut between them. The image of Newt with the wind tousling his hair and hiding jems of sand flashed through his mind, with his eyes twinkling in response to the constellations above them. Thomas imagined a subtle smile on his friend's face because he thought that suited Newt better than the frown he constantly wore.

He opened his eyes, and the stars greeted him again.

"I remember that someone once told me that the stars we see now are merely images of what they were years ago. It takes years for the light to travel and reach our eyes." Thomas whispered, voice cracking towards the end. Whether Newt nodded his head or was looking at the sand, Thomas wasn't sure. He hoped it was the former.

"I wonder if some of them are already dead."

* * *

There were occasional turbulences that jolted Thomas awake from the dreams where he was falling deeper into an endless pit. His body was sinking deeper and faster than ever, and his hands were clawing at the air for something to grasp and break his fall, but there was nothing.

When his eyes flew open and mouth parted in a silent gasp, the first thing that he saw was darkness staring back at him. Fear consumed him at the thought that he had woken up from a dream into yet another dream, but there was a sudden warmth around his arm that grounded him back into reality. He followed the too thin and pale hand to a set of brown eyes peering into his, worried.

"You're alright, Tommy." Newt hushed, rubbing his hand along Thomas's arm soothingly. His touch was light, almost as if Newt was afraid of him. Why?

Thomas pushed himself up to lean his head against the wall of the Berg, feeling the coolness of the steel against his forehead that had beads of perspiration, some rolling down slowly, gaining momentum as it did. He counted his breaths to steady it, too aware of the hand still trailing his arm. It wasn't an unwelcomed touch, but it wasn't expected. It seemed that since the moment they had learnt the list of Immunes, Newt had been distancing himself in both the literal and figurative sense. He had been less physical in offering comfort, and began to fade into the background of conversations more often. In fact, it seemed like the only time that Newt had gotten their undivided attention was when he had an outburst, violence itching at his fingertips. There was a pang of hurt at the thought that he hadn't seen this happening until now, when Newt had once been so open and outspoken about what he thought.

Thomas nodded weakly, eyes still closed. He heard soft sounds of skin sliding over the smooth floor, and then there was an arm cautiously sliding across his shoulders, gingerly pulling Thomas to the side. Thomas let his body fall limp in Newt's arms and be cradled like a child, relishing the feeling of being cared for, of being loved. He knew it was numbered now.

"No, you're not." Newt said, but there was no edge in his voice, only resignation. "Tell me what's wrong."

Thomas felt the steady rise and fall of his friend's chest against his, like a metronome his body was trying to follow. It was discordant, two heartbeats completely out of sync. One too erratic and fierce, the other calm and even. Funny how one person can be so collected when his life was spiraling out of control, when his mind was disintegrating with each breath he took.

"Everything. Everything is wrong. This wasn't what was supposed to happen, Newt." _You weren't supposed to be in the control group._

"Yeah, and I guess the Scorch wasn't supposed to happen, and Alby wasn't supposed to die, and I was supposed to be immune?" Newt bristled, unfounded anger intensifying. Thomas stiffened at the turn in the conversation, the urge to run crawling out of the recesses of his mind. Sensing the sudden change in Thomas's body language, Newt bit his lip and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as he did. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for."

Thomas turned his head enough to see his friend's apologetic look and shook his head. He should've known better than to say something like that, that could be taken the wrong way. He forgot that things were different now, even if they pretended it wasn't. He forgot he wasn't walking on asphalt anymore, he was now threading on eggshells.

"It's okay, we're only human." Thomas reached out to clasp his hand over Newt's, giving it a light squeeze.

"Human." Newt echoed, staring through Thomas. Thomas nodded curtly.

"If we're not human, then what does that make us?"

The corner of Newt's mouth turned up in a crooked smile, but even that was tinged with sadness. Newt pushed himself away from Thomas and headed back into the corner of the Berg, far away from where Minho slept and where Brenda was having a private conversation with Jorge.

Thomas had taken Newt's acquiescence for agreement, but on hindsight he should've realised that it was a forbearing sign of his friend's decision. He stood in the bathroom of the Berg, fingers ghosting the messy letters on the folded paper and mind tracing the individual words addressed to the group. He should've known that Newt had already accepted being a crank, and given up being anything more than that. He should've known that Newt had trusted him enough as a friend to end his agony for him.

He should've known, but he didn't, and that had made all the difference.

* * *

"I had a feeling that you'd be out here, shank."

There was a rustling noise from the bushes behind him before Minho peeked from between the branches of the tree, beaming too happily at him in the darkness. The suddenness startled Thomas; he had been seated with his back to the tree and staring at the multiple rows of potatoes and carrots ahead before Minho had interrupted him. Thomas gave a small smile back, turning his attention to the asian who was making himself comfortable next to him.

There were the soft chirping sounds made by the birds, and if Thomas tried hard enough, he could hear the distant sounds of water crashing against the shore from the beach nearby. It was before sunrise and he had woken up from a nightmare that hit too close to home, and wandered to the place that he'd been finding solace in since they had reached paradise. The place was paradise in itself, self-sufficient without having to rely on monthly supplies or artificial lighting, but the easiness only highlighted the struggle they had endured to reach this place. Some of them not even being able to set foot in it.

Minho leaned his head back until there was a soft thud from where his head met the wood. Thomas turned, giving his friend a meaningful once-over.

"You must be tired," Thomas commented, taking in the downward tug of his friend's lips and the slouch in his shoulders, where it was usually squared. "I haven't seen you get a proper rest yet."

Minho chuckled and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "You think? There's so much to do here."

Thomas made a noise of agreement, mindlessly plucking out blades of grass near his feet. Minho opened his eyes and stared at Thomas for a long time, not saying anything.

They sat in silence for what seemed like a long time, but honestly the concept of time was lost on Thomas since they got here. There was no rush anymore, no need to keep track of the seconds that may have been a life or death matter before. It was peaceful now, but it was exactly that that unsettled him to his soul when he was alone. It was the kind of peace that people would die for, and they did. How many lives had been thrown away just for him to reach this point?

Sensing his growing discomfort, Minho cleared his throat. "I've noticed that you usually disappear in the early mornings." He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, letting his knees bracket his head. "Tell me what's going on in that head of yours."

Thomas chuckled humourlessly at that, shaking his head. He caught Minho's eye and sighed, leaning back against the tree again.

"Being a good leader, aren't you?"

Minho laughed softly, but it came out as more of a shaky exhale of breath than anything else. Truthfully, Thomas knew that Minho had already known; Minho had always been more perceptive than he let on. The fact that Minho knew Thomas would be at the outskirts of their little plantation was indication enough that his friend knew him well enough. He bit his lip, feeling a surge of guilt wash over him.

"It's okay to miss them, you know? I miss them too. I think about them every day that I wake up, and I think about them before I close my eyes at night. Sometimes I look at the sky and count the stars, and I wonder if each of them is a star still protecting us until today." Minho put his hand over Thomas's thigh, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He knew Thomas needed this comfort as much as he did.

Thomas looked down at his hands, fingers lacing with each other. The tightness in his chest was starting to feel uncomfortable, suffocating even.

"Sometimes I wonder, if I had never helped build the maze, I wonder if he would still be alive." Thomas confessed, avoiding Minho's stare. He still couldn't bring himself to say his deceased friend's name. The memory of the trigger against his finger was too fresh, the hurt too raw. Tears prickled his eyes and he blinked quickly, trying to hold them in. Minho couldn't find out about the madness in their friend's actions, the desperation in his voice hoarse from screaming, and the final moment of clarity in his eyes before he had pulled on the trigger.

Minho leaned closer, eyebrows pinched together. "Why the shuck are you talking about him like that? He's not dead, Thomas."

Thomas bit his lower lip hard, willing himself not to breakdown and spill what he had done. He couldn't lose Minho now, not after he had lost Teresa as well. If Minho had to find out about it, it wouldn't be today or for the foreseeable future. If he had it his way, it would be a secret he would take with him to his grave.

Swallowing the remorse, he choked, "The Newt that we know is dead, Minho."

Minho pursed his lips and looked at the ground beneath him. A sudden hush fell over them, only interrupted by the waves of the ocean meeting the shoreline in a forbidden rendezvous.

Minho exhaled long, eyes darting everywhere. "He loved you, you know Thomas? He never said it, but he did. In his own way."

Then clapping Thomas's shoulder, he stood up and dusted the dirt off of his pants before making to walk away. The first rays of sunlight were already illuminating the darkness overhead, casting a dark purple gradient across the sky. The white splatters were still visible, but growing fainter with time.

"Minho." Thomas called tentatively. The asian stopped in his tracks, but he didn't turn around. Thomas took it as a hint to continue. "If we're no longer Gladers, no longer lab rats.. Then what are we?"

Thomas could see the way that Minho's shoulders stiffened for a fraction of a second before his body relaxed again. Minho looked sadly over his shoulders at Thomas, offering a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Survivors." He said with finality in his voice, turning to walk off.

Tiny droplets of water fell from the leaves above head, dampening his hair. He didn't move from his position in spite of this. Staring off into the horizon where the last of their crops slept, blissfully unaware of everything else, Thomas saw a tall silhouette moving about with grace, nimble fingers working with dexterity. For just a split second, Thomas saw that same silhouette rise from its position on the ground with some difficulty, and wave a hand over to him, as if in greeting. _Hello, goodbye, thanks for being my friend._

When he blinked and opened his eyes, it was gone. An eerie calm fell over him as he brought his knees to his chest. In ways more than one, Thomas found himself alone.


End file.
